


Masquerade: You Can Fool Any Friend Who Never Knew You

by Veul_McLannon



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, Romance, Vetinari is a snappy dresser, also a small downey cameo, i guess, rufus does Politics again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-08
Updated: 2018-09-08
Packaged: 2019-07-08 17:55:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15935411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Veul_McLannon/pseuds/Veul_McLannon
Summary: Drumknott and Vetinari attend the Hogswatch masquerade, each absolutely certain that the other is unaware of their identity. This is not the case, and there ensues considerable confusion and much dancing on all sides.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> What feels like a big old cliché, despite the fact I’m fairly sure I’ve never in a decade read anything of the kind. Title from ALW’s Phantom. Nothing is mine as per.

The Palace’s annual Hogswatch masquerade was one of the society events of the year. It provided the opportunity for the citizens to let their hair down (if of a hair-possessing nature) and enjoy the hospitality of the Palace without having to exercise the considerable verbal restraint which tended to characterise any interactions undertaken within the palace grounds. At least after the first three glasses of free alcohol.

Drumknott had a standing invitation to such events, given his invisibility, ability to remember a conversation verbatim, and also the fact that he was not Vetinari, causing a marked tendency on the part of conversationalists towards relaxation in his presence. This was the height of foolishness. Any marginally advantageous information inevitably wound its way through the filing cabinets of Drumknott’s neatly organised mind, and was presented to the Patrician with the morning tea.

The masquerade was even more useful in this respect, given that no one guest knew the identity of any other – and certainly not of Drumknott, tonight bedecked in glittering purple velvet, with a filigree half-mask concealing the face that they would never have recognised even if it had been visible. He found that his vocation worked to his advantage in such situations, and most especially when faces were concealed, allowing him to recognise the voices which he often heard raised in anger, rather than the faces which he rarely saw. His chosen conversation partners thus far had had no such luck, as if they had ever heard a mere clerk speak, they most certainly would not recall his voice.

He was currently embroiled in discussion with Dr Downey, who was actually surprisingly interesting conversation when one disregarded the permanent chip he held on his shoulder – so desperate to be accepted by the aristocracy, he tended towards chilliness with those of a lower social standing. Or those more intelligent. Drumknott, being a member of both these classes, relished the prospect of torturing the man with discreet references to this conversation in the future, as he of course had no idea of Drumknott’s identity.

As a waiter approached with refreshed glasses of some kind of frighteningly alcoholic beverage, his eye was drawn by a figure entering the hall by the huge double doors. He was not announced, but Drumknott recognised his employer immediately. It was, he considered, a wonder that no-one else did (this could be ascertained by the fact that people were not discreetly edging away from him, as they tended to in the Patrician’s presence). He excused himself from the Assassin and weaved across the floor to the buffet table (currently besieged by a number of wizards, who had rather spoiled the mystery of the occasion by insisting on wearing their pointy hats), all the while discreetly keeping the Patrician in sight.

Ever the understated dresser, Vetinari had chosen an outfit admittedly so dramatic that nobody could suspect his identity from visual clues alone. Gone was the plain black robe, to be replaced by a flowing white floor-length coat, apparently trimmed with long white feathers. Ornate teal beadwork scrolled across the shoulders and down one arm, and Drumknott could tell immediately that they would (gods preserve him) emphasise the bright blue of the Patrician’s eyes – which at this juncture in his analysis looked up from the discussion in which they were engaged, and straight at him. He swallowed but otherwise moved not a muscle. The rest of the ensemble was white too, with a waistcoat of pearlescent brocade in the modern style, a high-necked ruffled shirt, and an opulent three-quarter mask after the Quirmian fashion.

Perhaps the most striking aspect of his appearance, however (apart from the eyes, which Drumknott could still feel burning slowly through his own retinas, despite the fact that they had now turned away), was his hair, which had (with remarkable alacrity given that not half an hour ago he had been addressing the hall) been dyed pure white. The overall effect was awe-inducing.

Apparently, however, only to Drumknott. He found that he had to tear himself away from the sight, and then that his eyes continued to drift back of their own volition. It was almost unbelievable that nobody else in the hall had noted the unique gravitational pull of the Patrician.

Of course, he reasoned, everyone _knew_ that Vetinari did not attend events such as these, and thus would not expect, or suspect, his presence. Indeed, he had opened this one with considerable fanfare, in his customary black, before very conspicuously leaving. Thus to the average guest, and the average intellect, he was gone for the evening, allowing people to really enjoy themselves. And enjoy themselves they did. The eternal rivers of expensive and aged drink most emphatically ensured this.

Drumknott idly rescued a grape from a neglected fruit bowl and ate it thoughtfully, turning back to regard the Patrician – who was not where he had last seen him, or indeed anywhere nearby. There was a lull as the conductor of the hired band ceased waving his hands around and turned to address the assembled crowd. The dancing was to begin. This was where the real fun started; people let all kinds of information slip to a pretty young dance partner whom they would never see again.

The music began once again at a brisk waltz, and he lost himself in the worlds of every partner, in their life, their concerns, their politics and their thoughts, whirling from one to the next in a kaleidoscopic storm.

In the excitement of political intrigue he had almost forgotten about the tall figure in white until he was spun again to his next partner and found himself quite suddenly in Vetinari’s arms. Several neurons immediately short-circuited as he looked up into bright blue eyes (and yes, the beading did enhance them, and yes, it was causing him breathing difficulties), and he forced himself to smile shyly from under long blond lashes as he had at every other dancer that evening, showing no inkling of recognition. He could feel Vetinari’s hand on the small of his back all but burning through the fabric, and tried to persuade himself to ignore it, entirely unsuccessfully.

They spun around the dance floor in silence, as Drumknott’s _modus operandi_ for such occasions was simply to let the other fill the silence themselves (which Vetinari was not as a rule prone to doing), and furthermore he doubted that he would in any way contribute coherent conversation were he to initiate. So focused was he on appearing nonchalant, on showing no sign of recognition, that he failed to notice that he had been drifting closer to the Patrician over the course of the dance, and found to his horror when the tempo changed that he had insinuated himself into the crook of the man’s neck, and moreover, fitted as though he belonged there. He rather desperately put some distance between them, but the waltz had changed to a tango and the blue eyes glittered mercilessly down at him.

He swallowed. There was no possible way that Vetinari could recognise him when he had spoken not a word and most of his face was covered. One tended, to the best of his knowledge of these matters, not to focus unduly on the makeup of one’s secretary’s face, especially when running a city single-handed.

There was no more time to consider the issue, however, as Vetinari had pulled them closer together again and was now executing some exceedingly intricate footwork with which Drumknott was hard pressed to keep up. He hadn’t broken eye contact since the end of the waltz, and Drumknott decided to throw caution to the winds and stop shying from the inevitable. He dialled the sultry eyelashes up to eleven, and gave as good as he got, until the dance ended with a dip so deep that Drumknott was certain Vetinari was carrying most of his weight. He could feel his ears burning. A few nearby couples broke into impromptu applause, and the Patrician helped him up and nodded and smiled at a few of them.

After their small audience had turned back to continue the slower dance which had followed, he returned his gaze to Drumknott with an intensity so great that he felt like he might be drowning. Certainly, those eyes were capable of it, and certainly if drowning were what they wished he would comply. Drumknott, already somewhat breathless from the dance, found his treacherous eyeline flickering down towards the other’s lips. There were really only two ways this could go: he could either kiss him, and live in an eternity of torment knowing that he would never do so again, or he could step away, and live in an eternity of torment dreaming of what he might have had. Well, he did the second every day anyway, so-

Or there was, apparently, a third option. Vetinari smiled suddenly down at him, quirked an eyebrow – and vanished into the throng. He stood there for a few seconds like a velveteen lemon, his mouth rather unfortunately hanging open in shock. In time, the noise around him returned him to his senses, and he slipped through the mass of bodies to recollect his thoughts in the presence of a handily-placed, and holly-laden, golden urn.*

 

* All palaces being seemingly rather big on these, and the Patrician’s Palace being no exception.

***

He had been propping up the decor for some fifteen minutes, and regaining at least passable brain power, when the white figure again hove into view. Incredibly close at hand. That is to say, _incredibly_ close. A mere foot away, and that was being somewhat generous. If this had been anyone other than Vetinari he would already have excused himself to an urgent assignment elsewhere, but he found himself unable to move from the presence before him. He desperately wanted to peel the mask off and kis- or, ah, see him properly.

He registered dimly that Vetinari had been speaking, and in fact, that he had captured an unresisting hand while Drumknott was mentally elsewhere. He now proceeded to raise a questioning eyebrow, and Drumknott’s brain helpfully supplied the belated aural message: “I should very much like to... know you better, if you were agreeable.” During this interlude, he had raised the captive hand to his lips and had the absolute gall to do something so romantic as to kiss it – _all while maintaining eye contact, the coy bastard_ , thought Drumknott distractedly.

 “You really ought to know who I am,” he gasped, trying to regain some kind of control over his emotions.

Vetinari smirked against his hand, before releasing it and replying briskly, “Is not the point of all this-” he gestured to their masks, “- that we do _not_ know?” He raised the other eyebrow, but did not press the issue further than that.

Equally, he didn’t step back. Drumknott could feel the first tendrils of panic curling round his brain. What would happen when he found out, as he surely would? A brief interlude of total happiness was not worth the destruction of their painstakingly constructed working relationship, was not worth the loss of moments of camaraderie over the antics of the various players in the Ankh-Morpork tableau. Was not worth the look of disappointment and shock on Vetinari’s face when he realised.

“That may be so, but I am afraid that you might live to regret that decision, sir,” Drumknott told his feet quietly, knowing that if he looked up he would most certainly yield. He couldn’t risk it.

As he was looking at his feet, he therefore failed to notice the sudden shuttering of blue eyes and stillness of the frame before him, although he heard the careful, “My apologies,” and saw the figure melt silently back into the crowd and vanish. He wouldn’t find him, that much was certain, for no matter how hard he stared at the massed bodies, he could no longer see the flash of white which had characterised the Patrician’s movements all evening. Drumknott sighed, leaned against the urn and tried to rearrange his thoughts into something approaching positivity. It was for the best. Perhaps if he told himself that enough times, he might believe it.


	2. Chapter 2

Foolish. Vetinari stood at the tall window in the Oblong Office, looking out at the myriad yellow and red lights of the city, and seeing nothing but the thoughts in his own head. Foolish and, worse still, patronising. Of course his own secretary would recognise his voice! There was no-one on the Disc who saw him so frequently on a daily basis. He had grievously insulted the man by assuming he would not.

Not, of course, that that was an issue now. He stared out at the midnight fog, freezing where it lay feet-deep on the ground like particularly noxious snow, and very nearly refrained from sighing. He could only hope that his secretary did not realise that he _knew_ the identity of the person whom he was propositioning (to wit: his secretary), and assumed only that his employer had perhaps over-imbibed in a general sense.

He smiled a little however, when he allowed himself to consider that his rejection at the hands of a man who _knew who he was_ meant that Drumknott felt comfortable enough in his presence to act in such a manner. He ought not to encourage such behaviour, but in Rufus Drumknott he found himself disinclined to curtail it.

Moreover, curtailing it would involve broaching the issue, which Vetinari had absolutely no intention of doing. Let it remain forever unsaid that he had knowingly propositioned his secretary. He refocused on the city beyond the Palace walls and sighed again minutely, turning away from the window and seating himself at his desk. The mask already lay discarded, and he ran a weary hand through his hair as he withdrew the latest draft of his monograph on the influence of ancient language on modern politics and began to write.

***

Drumknott, meanwhile, had found satisfactory arrangement of his thoughts impossible to execute among the inconsiderately loud merrymakers, and had decided to repair somewhere quieter. Ensuring the proper organisation of the filing system might aid in this. Perhaps he would visit the stationery first; there was no doubt that it had a calming effect similar to that described in Lu-Tze’s Book of Zan. He slipped quietly into the Oblong Office and glided over to his desk, setting the traitorous mask down as he did so.

He was just about to take his seat when he realised that something was wrong. Or rather, something was right, as he was barely ever in the office alone.

And indeed he wasn’t now. Vetinari had been seated at his desk by the far wall, and despite the colour of his attire contrasting with the gloominess of the room, Drumknott had failed to notice him. He looked up from the paper in front of him with a blank expression – not surprised, or curious, or irritated, and certainly not sheepish.

Good – perhaps he did not realise that it had been Drumknott whom he had – ah. He, Drumknott, hadn’t changed out of his clothes, of course. So now they both knew who had been involved in the earlier affair. He ignored his rapidly beating heart and spoke into a silence so dense you could probably have stood in it.

“Apologies, my lord, I did not know you would be here. I simply came to...” he realised “speak to the stationery” would probably ensure him new lodgings far from the Palace, likely with doors which locked only from the outside, and modified his words to, “... finish off some work. It was becoming rather loud, and I would not be able to uncover much information of value, given the amount of alcohol which has now collectively been imbibed. However,” he continued, in case the Patrician wanted to be alone ( _and who wouldn’t, after realising they just accidentally propositioned their secretary_ , he thought), “I can work at the outside desk if you would prefer, my lord. It is of no consequence to – my work.” He had very nearly said “me”, but caught himself in time. Outright lies to his master were anathema to his entire being.

Vetinari nodded. “You may remain, Drumknott, if you wish.” He appeared about to say more, but subsided into silence, looking back down at the document before him.

Drumknott did wish, and so he sat. Now, of course, having said he was working, he would have to do so. This in itself was no problem, as he largely enjoyed his work, but coming to terms with the sheer volume of spelling and grammatical errors in Watch reports required more brainpower than he was prepared at that moment to relinquish. Thus he pulled an uncompleted one from his desk, set it to his right to finish in, oh, ten or so minutes’ time, then took another sheet and jotted down the events of the evening in two neat columns.

_R.D._

| 

_L. H. V._  
  
---|---  
  
_\- Recognises his lordship_

| 

_\- Does not recognise his secretary_  
  
_\- Due to the movement of the room, dances with his lordship_

| 

_\- Due to the movement of the room, dances with yet another stranger_  
  
_\- Continues to mingle and is later approached by his lordship, who professes to have enjoyed the dance_

_\- Does he think I am someone else?_

| 

_\- Continues to mingle and later seeks out his previous dancing partner in order to...?_ *  
  
_\- Informs his lordship that he ought to know his partner in this instance_

| 

_\- Protests the utility of the masks in this respect_  
  
_\- Informs his lordship that this is unwise_

| 

_\- Departs at a rapid pace_  
  
_\- Repairs to the Oblong Office_

| 

_\- Repairs to the Oblong Office_  
  
 

* The thought that Vetinari might engage in, to use the common parlance, “a good time” with a stranger was so unthinkable to Drumknott that he could not even put it to paper.

He stared through the page as though this might persuade it to reveal its secrets. They began and ended in the same manner. Why did his lordship leave? Certainly he had never before listened to anyone who informed him that his actions were unwise. Drumknott played the conversation back in his head... _“I am afraid that you might live to regret that decision, si-”_ Had he really said “sir”? Could it really be that simple? Vetinari unwilling to jeopardise his position with someone who had ascertained his identity? But then surely the response was to... find someone else who had not done so, and not to seek out the solitude of the Oblong Office.

Drumknott realised far too late that he had been staring at Vetinari for the last five minutes, his pen motionless in his hand. And the Patrician was gazing solemnly back, and gods only knew how long that had been going on. He suddenly felt incredibly out of his depth.

He had been dealing with the situation so well! Everything could be quietly ignored, and he could find solace in the continued presence of the Patrician. And now they both knew who the other had been, and everything would change. Unless they could come to an agreement, perhaps. After all, he had so much less to lose than Vetinari ever could, and he would be content to lose it all in order to maintain their previous relationship. Or perhaps... He shoved the by now madly rampaging panic into a compartment in his brain and stood up, moving towards the other desk by the far wall.

“My lord,” he said, standing in the vast empty space in the middle of the room, untethered and flying free on heady wings of recklessness. They had done this before; there was no harm in it. He held out a hand. “May I have this dance?”

Whatever Vetinari had expected, it was not that. The brief flash of surprise would have been missed by anyone else, but at that moment he was all of Drumknott’s world, and later on he would take considerable pride in having evinced that fleeting expression. For now, he waited, forcing himself not to fidget, and was rewarded by an almost unnoticeable softening of expression and the Patrician rising to his feet to join him.

His breath very nearly didn’t catch in his throat as he realised too late that his proposition had put him in the position of leading; he was sure that Vetinari’s eyes were laughing at him as he slid a hand onto his slim waist. They could still just hear the faint music floating up from the hall downstairs, and kept in time, but otherwise the room was utterly silent. Of course Vetinari was equally as good a dancer when following, Drumknott found himself thinking wryly; if only he had the decency to be inadequate at something for once.

He realised suddenly that the hands not joined together had crept further around their respective torsos unnoticed (or at least, unnoticed by him), and furthermore that he had ended up, yet again, with his head tucked into Vetinari’s shoulder. The shock of this prompted him, yet again, to try and pull away, but this time the Patrician’s grip, while still as soft as velvet and not in any way painful, was stronger than steel. He relented with little reluctance, and relaxed into the accidental embrace.

They had stopped moving. Drumknott pulled back a little and looked up into eyes deeper than the sea. “Regarding your earlier... suggestion,” he murmured, trying not to sound unduly breathless, “Does it still stand, in the light of... knowing who I am?” He was rewarded, for the second time in the space of half an hour, with a puzzled expression flitting rapidly across the Patrician’s face, before being slowly replaced by the most contented smile he had ever seen grace its chiselled environs.

 “I knew who you were, Rufus,” he replied just as quietly, sending a shiver running down Drumknott’s spine and prompting a gasp which was immediately swallowed as the minute space between them closed.

The last functioning part of Drumknott’s brain noted dryly that he had the bloody nerve to be good at this as well, before it relented in the face of the onslaught and accepted its fate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! The more I proofread this the more I liked it, so I hope it works for you! ... on a side note, Vetinari’s outfit is basically What I Want To Wear Always, so I’m glad I can live vicariously through him. I always live for comments in a very real sense! #begbeggrovelgrovel <3


End file.
